Evening Rites

They stepped out, the sky already darkening—dusk bleeding into nightfall. The air hung heavy and damp, mist curling like lazy smoke. A soft drizzle danced from the heavens, barely a whisper at first... then: drip... drip... drip—a crescendo of droplets tapping steadily against cobblestone and leaf.

Seraphine and Angela paused, Seraphine's hand still mid-motion on the wrought iron doorknob. She let out an exasperated sigh.

Of course, she muttered, turning briskly back into the house.

Moments later, she returned, arms full with three long-handled umbrellas, their black canopies stitched with delicate silver seams. She handed them out wordlessly, and the trio unfurled the umbrellas in unison with soft fwumps, descending the narrow stone stoop onto the garden path, now slick with rain. The pattering above their heads was soft but steady.

Lucien lingered, his gaze drawn backward.

Behind him stood the house—aged and worn, yet not without presence. A one-story timber structure, its wooden bones bleached and stained by decades of fog and silence. Ivy clung like secrets to the outer walls, and the gabled roof sagged slightly on it a chimney that has probably not been used in a long time due to the price of coal. Narrow Gothic windows—some fogged, others cracked—some where normal catching slivers of lantern light while others where stained window showing fractured light

It wasn't grand. But it was alive.

Lucien tore his gaze away, picking up his pace as they passed beneath a hanging clothesline strung between two iron poles. Tunics and linen shirts drooped with rainwater.

Damn,Seraphine muttered, scowling at the soaked laundry. I'll have to wait another day.

They stepped onto the main street, and the world unfolded

There where buildings that looked exactly like their house only that some where more dilapidated and others stood strong , he houses in rows .

A river of people flowed along the cobblestones—men in weathered coats and brimmed hats, women in layered corset dresses, boots clicking under swaths of long skirts. Children zipped between grown-up legs like darting shadows, some clutching pastries, others tossing stones into puddles. Most wore thick overcoats or cloaks in deep blues, greys, and muddy reds—fabrics damp and glistening under gaslight.

Lace gloves clutched newspaper and umbrellas.

Wool scarves fluttered in the wind.

A beggar in a three-button jacket muttered to himself, cross-legged near a baker's awning.

The street was alive with noise. A hundred conversations murmured at once—gossip, deals, laughter, a lover's quiet quarrel. The scent of soot, cinnamon, oil, and wet brass filled the air.

Lantern-lit stalls lined the walkways, each glowing like miniature hearths, their canvas tops flapping gently in the wind Their top dripping rain drops on the ground.

Charcoal bread! Two Lira! Best price in all of Cael Vaer!" a woman shouted from beneath a patched canopy.

Another stall steamed with meat pies.

Stew-meat or blackberry, darling? Hot and fat and just two lira! another called.

Beside her, a gin stall glittered with mismatched bottles. A man held up cloudy glass bottles.

Spiced gin! One shot, he bellowed.

A child drenched in the rain water stood before a cracked-glass display labeled:

Dollmaker of Ashwell Street – Wigs, Eyes & Little Dress ups .

Across the road:

Miss Pennywick's School for Peculiar Young Girls – Enrollment Open.

And Lucien's favorite, crookedly hung above a faded door in faint gold:

Osgood's Emporium – Exorcisms & Thimbles.

The cobblestones flickered in the pale flame of gas lamps. Lamplighters in brown rain coats moved from post to post, twisting knobs. Each lantern came alive with a click-hiss, casting eerie halos across the drenched street.

And above all that—

The bells.

A bell chimed in the distance. Then another. And another. Each clang or toll or chime sounded unique—some low and resonant, some delicate and eerie.

Lucien tilted his head.

Why do they all sound different? he asked.

Seraphine didn't stop walking, but answered over her shoulder, Each church uses a different bell metal. Different tones for different creeds. That's the sound of evening rites beginning. Faith needs its music.

Then:

Silver Clause Expanded! Will You Be Next?!

A boy in a threadbare raincloak stood atop a crate, waving soggy newspapers overhead.

"Lead Poisoning: What the Church Won't Tell You!"

"Steward's Son Still Missing—Last seen Speaking to Shadowy figures"

"Strange Creatures Spotted Again Over Eastgate!"

He locked eyes with Lucien for a breath—mud-smeared face, eyes far older than his years—then vanished into the crowd.

Lucien could hardly breathe. His heart beat against his ribs.

He turned slowly, trying to take it all in: the flickering firelight, the sounds of heels and wheels, the chaos and comfort of human motion. His mouth opened slightly, and a bit of warmth bloomed in his chest.

He'd been asleep for five months.

But the world had kept turning.

And he had so much to catch up on.

The sound of wheels rattling over cobblestones grew louder as people stepped aside. A sleek carriage flanked by two riders on horseback emerged, drawing stares.

The carriage had a regal appearance—golden engravings etched into polished exotic wood. The steeds were well-fed and muscled, their manes groomed to elegance. A symbol glimmered on the carriage's side—its presence enough to stir murmurs through the crowd. Some whispered in awe. Others grumbled in contempt.

Angela and Seraphine stopped walking, their eyes tracking the carriage.

These are goods from merchants with deep ties to the mayor," Seraphine murmured, watching it vanish around a corner.

They resumed walking.

Soon after the rain had reduced only to a mere drizzle, they stopped using the umbrella and kept it back in it dormant state with Angela giving the umbrella with her to Seraphine.

Soon, they reached a public carriage stop. The difference between it and the previous one was stark. The wood was chipped and dull. The velvet inside smelled of sweat, mildew, and wet oak. The horse pulling it looked half-starved, ribs visible beneath thinning fur.

Angela climbed in first.

The ride to Vellum's End downtown—two lira, three scints,croaked the driver, his sunken eyes half-lidded, voice dry.

Angela scrunched her face, haggled briefly, and settled for two lira, one scint.

She smiled, leaning out as the carriage pulled off. Goodbye! she called. Lucien, don't worry! I'll visit soon!

Lucien waved, then turned to his mother. She reached down, ruffled his hair gently.

Let's get home, she said.

They continued walking. The rain had thinned to a ghost of itself, the nightlife still thriving.

Lucien paused before a fashion stall. A full-length mirror stood beside the display. Jewelry glinted beneath the lantern light, and hats and gloves hung neatly in rows.

Lucien blinked.

He'd finally see what he looked like.